


I tell you miserable things after you are asleep

by kitseybarbours



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Actor Ben, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Infidelity, Lawyer Hux, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, the original characters are PLOT DEVICES that's it I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6226333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hux and Ben are falling apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I tell you miserable things after you are asleep

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Conversation 16](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HEE0OGJUE-4) by the National; accompanying [playlist](http://8tracks.com/fabernathys/miserable-things) on my 8tracks.

 

*

“This isn’t working.”

Brendol Hux II stares up at the ceiling of his bedroom and lets his words be absorbed by the dark. Outside, traffic passes in the night; a siren wails, people laugh on the street below. In the bed beside him, his lover is silent.

“It’s not you. It’s not me. It’s — all of it,” Hux continues quietly, knowing that Ben is awake and listening. “We can’t keep going on like this.”

“Like what?”  Ben Solo speaks up, his deep voice flat.

“You know what.” Hux takes a breath. “Like _this._ Fighting and fucking, pretending it’s all alright. You know.”

“Hm.” Ben rolls over. “So, are you kicking me out?” he asks, and Hux can hear the hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Hux sighs.

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Hux closes his eyes. “Goodnight, Ben. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“No, we won’t.”

*

He’s right, of course. Ben stays the night, and Hux gets up before his alarm and showers and dresses for work, and when he leaves for the office Ben is still passed-out in his bed. He leaves cash on the table and a note —  _For a cab. H. —_ and shuts the door of his flat as softly as he can. Ben has a show tonight, he knows, so at some point he’ll _have_ to leave — Hux stifles the thought that he doesn’t want him to.

He imagines, just for a second, coming home after work to find Ben still there, lounging around in his worn-out orange hoodie and a pair of Hux’s boxers — smiling lazily, coming up to greet him, kissing him like it didn’t matter. _Hi, honey, how was your day?_ in that low joking voice, and then his fingers in Hux’s belt-loops, the briefcase on the floor —  _let’s stay in tonight…_

Hux pushes the thought aside. _Stupid. That’s not us. That’s not how we work._

What’ll happen, he knows, is that he’ll go to work (spend all day furtively checking his phone _, did he get home all right),_ and then he’ll come home to an empty flat as the sun is going down (working too hard so he doesn’t think about anything else) and he’ll cook dinner for one and drink too much wine and maybe read a bit of his book and then go to bed without Ben.

He’ll keep his phone on his night-stand and wait for the text that maybe will, maybe won’t come — maybe _Show was good tonight, going right home, you can go to sleep now_ (to which he’ll make some dry rejoinder before turning his phone off for the night, annoyed that Ben knows him this well) or else _Shit tonight, Isaiah was stoned and forgot half of act 2 scene 1, we’re going out to drown our sorrows_ (to which he’ll type in reply _Be safe, take care of yourself_ but won’t send) — or, best/worst case scenario, Ben will text to say _Can’t sleep. Can I come over?_

The answer to that one, they both know, will never be _By all means, of course, I’d love to have you —_ but every time, no matter how Hux replies ( _No, Don’t you have your own place?, I’m sleeping),_ Ben will show up at the door and he’ll kiss Hux’s neck and they’ll fall into bed and then the whole cycle will repeat itself. Hux leaves. Ben stays. Work, Tube, dinner, wine. Book. Bed. Phone. _No._

“Goodnight, Ben.”

*

“Nothing to be done,” Ben says, onstage that night. He sighs and stops trying to pull off his boot.

Ben’s co-star, Nathan, enters. “I’m beginning to come round to that opinion myself.”

The show is _Waiting for Godot,_ at a tiny theatre above a pub in Islington. It’s a low-budget, second-rate staging: Ben, personally, kind of hates it, but they’ve been running for three weeks and most of the shows have been sold out (which isn’t saying much, as the theatre seats about forty.) In any case, though, it’s a job, and that’s the most important thing.

“I’m glad to see you back,” Nathan says. “I thought you were gone forever.”

“Me too.”

“Together again at last! We’ll have to celebrate this. But how?”…

The scene continues. The play continues. Godot doesn’t arrive, naturally. At the interval, backstage, Nathan sniffs a line of coke off a stray programme, and offers some to Ben, too, who declines. Act two passes, Godot _still_ makes no appearance, surprise surprise…The lights go down on Ben with his pants down, his belt, the would-be noose, in his hand, and Nathan standing sadly at his side…The small audience claps and Ben wants to leave, wants to get off this tiny stage and out of his costume and makeup. He wants to go home and have a drink, and he’s so thankful that tomorrow is his night off; he wants to go to bed and not wake up for about a week, and he never wants to perform this show ever again, and he wants _Hux,_ Christ, he wants to see him, wants to feel his hips beneath his hands and bury his face in the nape of his neck.

_Good crowd tonight. Going straight home. Night._

*

The next day Hux is wrapped up in a new case until very late in the day. His father, who heads the firm, emailed him the files this morning and he still hasn’t gotten through all of them; he’s been making phone calls, scheduling interviews and poring over stacks of law books all day. The case is complicated and multi-layered and brutal and draining, and all of his co-workers have bid him _See you tomorrow, don’t stay too late!_ and turned out their lights and he is still here, his eyes dry and straining as he reads and rereads his files and scribbled notes. Finally, sometime around eight, according to the clock on his computer, he pushes his chair back from his desk, takes off his reading glasses, and reaches blindly for his phone.

He dials Ben’s number without thinking; he remembers he has the night off. Ben picks up on the third ring.

“’Lo?”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Hux falls silent.

“Long day?” comes Ben’s voice at the other end of the line, gently teasing.

Hux rubs the bridge of his nose, feeling the divots made by his glasses. He’s had a headache for hours but is only just noticing it now. “You could say that.”

“Going home soon?”

Hux glances again at the clock, and back to the pages and pages of files he has yet to read, and he sighs.

“Yeah.”

“Thai okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Hux’s stomach growls: he’s forgotten to eat, again.

“Your usual?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

The line goes dead. Hux stares down at his phone and sighs.

“Thanks,” he says softly, too late.

*

They eat in silence, Hux manoeuvring his chopsticks expertly while Ben takes inelegant forkfuls of rice, noodles, green curry chicken. Hux opens a bottle of Riesling and pours for them both. His own glass is much fuller than Ben’s and they both very obviously ignore this.

“I hate this show,” Ben mumbles through a mouthful of som tum.  

“You’ve mentioned,” Hux replies, sipping his wine. “Several times.”

“I know.” Ben swallows. “I still hate it.”

“Then quit,” Hux answers by reflex, taking a large bite of curry so he won’t have to say any more. He sees the familiar flash of indignation in Ben’s big dark eyes, and he sighs internally, readying himself for a fight.

“I can’t,” Ben corrects him. “The run’s not over.”

“If you hate it so much, just quit,” Hux repeats acidly. He doesn’t want to do this.

“I _can’t,_ Hux. This is my _career.”_

“I know it’s your _career,”_ Hux answers him wearily. _Here we go again._ “But —”

“But that’s not important, is it?” Ben interrupts, his eyes flashing. “You don’t care that I hate this job, I hate this show, I haven’t found decent work in _months._ You just want me to stop bitching and shut up so you don’t have to deal with anyone else’s life but your own.”

“Ben,” Hux says warningly, setting down his chopsticks, “that’s not what I said. If you’re so _miserable,_ why not just _quit,_ for God’s sake?”

“Because I can’t let the rest of the cast down,” Ben protests irritably. “It’s a small company. We need everyone.”

“Well, then, there you have it. You’re stuck. I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to tell you,” Hux snaps; but his heart isn’t in it, neither of theirs are.

They’re tired of this, they both are, and they both know what comes next; Ben shouts back at Hux and stands, and his chair screeches across the tile floor and the sound sends knives through Hux’s head; and then he’s standing too and shouting, and the food is all but forgotten as they face off and yell the same old things at each other, _Maybe you aren’t cut out to be an actor after all, maybe your dad won’t be able to bail you out on this case for once, at least I have a real job, at least I_ _have a_ life _—_

and they end up in bed and Ben’s nails dig into Hux’s back as he cries out in angerpleasurecollapse, and they fall asleep and don’t dream and neither of them are surprised.

*

After that they have a week or two of peace, or of separation, at least.

They don’t talk about it, of course, don’t agree to spend less time together; but they both need the break, even if they don’t realise it themselves; and besides, their schedules get in the way: Ben’s going to auditions as often as he can, sometimes two or three in a day, and then performing every night, twice a day on weekends. He stops taking nights off. Hux, for his part, is wrapped up in this same _bloody_ case and is at the office from nine a.m. often until midnight. The court date isn’t for another month but he needs all the preparation he can get; he writes and re-writes his arguments, crumpling and shredding draft after draft. His migraines get worse and he can’t sleep without meds. Ben still texts after his shows but Hux can’t find the energy to reply.

When after two weeks Ben stops texting every night, Hux tells himself that it’s probably for the best, that maybe, finally, they should just let things fall apart naturally; but then he catches sight of Ben’s toothbrush in the bathroom and he leans his cheek against the wall and presses his fingers to his eyes.

Ben picks up on the first ring. It’s gone one a.m. and he sounds wide awake; he’s never been good at sleeping, _especially when he’s alone,_ a voice in the back of Hux's head reminds him.

“Hello?” Ben repeats.

“Can you come over?” Hux asks him, trying not to beg.

“I’m on my way.”

Hux hangs up and breathes.

*

He’s sitting at the table staring into a glass of wine when Ben comes in. He hears his heavy tread down the quiet empty hallway, registers the sound of his key in the lock, but Hux doesn’t move; and when Ben sees him, his fingers wrapped around his glass as if he’s trying to shatter it, he just sighs.

“Brendol,” Ben says gently. He sets his bag down —  _he brought a bag —_ and comes to sit next to Hux, prying his fingers from the glass. “Brendol. Hey.”

 “Don’t call me that,” Hux responds distantly, not looking at him. “That’s my father’s name.”

Ben looks at him warily. “I’m sorry — Hux.”

“I’m not my father,” Hux says bluntly. He looks up at Ben now, and he’s drunk, but the anger in his eyes is cold and real. “I’m _not_ him. I’m not.”

“I know,” Ben says, his voice calm and reassuring. “I know. I know —”

“But everyone expects me to be,” Hux carries on blindly, his words blurring together. “I’m not him, I can’t be him; he wants me to take over the firm and that’s why he’s given me this case, he’s testing me, he’s _auditioning_ me, and he won’t let me fuck it up but I’m _going_ to fuck it up, I know I am.”

“It’s going to be fine,” Ben says earnestly.

 _“No,_ it’s not,” Hux nearly shouts, finally snapping. “It’s _not!_ This case is _impossible_ and I hate my job, I hate the pressure — I haven’t slept well in weeks and I’m so fucking _tired,_ Ben — and _you —_ God, Ben, _you —_ ” He stops.

“What?” Ben asks, wary and suddenly defensive, sensing where this is going to go. “What about me?”

_I can’t let you go I won’t let you go but you can’t stay we can’t work — my God, I want you I need you —_

“You’re a failure, too,” Hux says barely audibly. “After _Godot,_ what will you do? It’s the first job you’ve had in months. Your auditions aren’t going well. You said so yourself.”

Ben stares blankly at him. Hux barrels on, not hearing or caring what he’s saying, knowing only that he’s hurting and he wants to hurt Ben too, he doesn’t know what else to do:

“You’re not going to make it as an actor,” he says flatly. “Your big break is never going to come.”

“Hux,” Ben says in tired warning, “please. You’re drunk, you don’t mean this, come on —”

“Shut up,” Hux interrupts, and he registers that his vision is blurring without understanding why. “Shut _up,_ Ben, I don’t want to hear it, I don’t want to hear you. I want you to _go.”_

“You don’t mean that.” Ben’s voice is measured and calm, pacifying.

“I do,” Hux cries out, his voice breaking. “I _do!_ I want you to go, Ben, and I don’t want you to come back.” He gulps, swallows back a sob: “I want you to go and I don’t want to see you again. I’m done. I’m done.”

He pushes his chair back with such violence that it makes the table shake, and then — they both watch in horrified slow motion as the wine glass tips over. It breaks, and the contents spill out, Burgundy spreading like blood on the wood. Motionless, they stare at it for a moment; Ben curses under his breath.

Then: “ _Go,”_ Hux orders, nearly choking on the word. His hands are braced on the table and he’s shaking.

Ben doesn’t go. Ben stands, and holds out a hand, and after a moment, weakly, wearily, Hux takes it. He hauls himself to standing and falls boneless into Ben’s arms and they stay there for a moment.

“I’m not going,” Ben says.

Hux sighs into him and gives no reply. In the bedroom, Ben undresses him gently, helps him into his pyjamas and into bed. He goes into the kitchen to mop up the wine and carefully move the shattered glass to the bin, and then comes back into the bedroom: Hux is lying rigidly awake, staring up at the ceiling, unblinking. Ben finds Hux’s phone charging on the night-stand and unlocks it, sends an email to the firm telling them not to expect him tomorrow. Hux watches him do it and numbly murmurs, “You shouldn’t,” but makes no further protest.

Ben strips down to his boxers and turns out the light. He climbs into bed and pulls Hux closer, wrapping his arms and legs around him, feeling the coldness of his hands and feet and trying to make them warm.

“I’m not going,” he murmurs again into Hux’s back.

“I know.”

*

Two Thursdays later, Hux’s phone pings with a text practically the minute his lunch break starts — not that he’s been taking lunch breaks lately. When he sees Ben’s name on the screen, as he hasn’t for so long, he blinks: shaking the numb feeling that’s come over him after spending all morning finalising his closing arguments, he unlocks his phone.

_Come to the show tonight._

Tomorrow is the last performance. Ben has a rule about never inviting people he knows to closing-night shows; some personal superstition he told Hux about when they first started seeing each other. _He was in…what, then? Salesman?_ Hux tries absently to recall.

They’d met only a couple weeks before, had just slept together for the first time after dinner at Barrafina, and in the middle of the night Hux had asked Ben about his favourite roles, his life as an actor, all that — “So can I come see your show, then?” he’d asked casually, heart pounding because it was late and dark and they were drunk; he was feeling reckless and happy and he meant all that this implied; was fully prepared to bring roses if he had to.

“No,” Ben had replied at once, and Hux’s heart had plummeted a little, because _Jesus,_ things were going so well, he’s never been one to open up easily but they were naked and it was two a.m. and this strange-faced man with the crooked-teeth laugh knew each and every one of Hux’s childhood memories by now.

“Why’s that?” he’d asked, fighting to keep his voice neutral, because for once he’d been thinking that maybejustmaybe this could be more than another one-night stand and maybejustmaybe Ben thought so too, but apparently he’d seriously misread some signals —

“Next show is closing night,” Ben had explained, and given an embarrassed chuckle that made Hux’s chest clench up. “I never invite anyone to closing performances.” He’d laughed bigger now. “Dumb superstition — in my first show after high school but before drama school — summer community theatre thing, you know the drill — my parents could only make it to closing night, and I kid you not, I forgot an _entire monologue._ Not good.” He’d hiccupped, laughing again. “If I’d been at _all_ sober after, I’d maybe, you know, have thought that it was my _parents_ being there that was bad luck; but I got hammered at the cast party and decided that no, it was _closing night_ that fucked me up. It stuck, I guess, cause now here we are.” He’d pressed a kiss to Hux’s bare chest almost shyly. “Sorry.”

And now here they are six months later and they haven’t spoken since Hux broke down the other night (he closes his eyes at the memory, embarrassed at his weakness even now), and Hux knows for a fact that _Godot_ closes tomorrow, the twenty-first — Ben marked it on Hux’s kitchen calendar practically the day after rehearsals started; he sees the red circled date every time he goes to the fridge (21 May, big messy letters: _I AM FREE OF THIS HELL!)_ and come to think of it Ben has never invited Hux to a _single one_ of his shows, closing night or otherwise.

But tonight is _not_ closing night, and he’s been invited, and he flips to the calendar on his phone and finds it somehow empty for this evening; and Ben has apparently forgotten or is graciously ignoring the fact that Hux practically begged him to leave him alone on that awful night two Wednesdays ago and hasn’t called or texted since, _because I don’t know what to say except I’m sorry, I need you, I’m sorry I need you, I’msorryIneedyou but we don’t say that, we don’t say any of it —_

He has no excuse. And so he types his reply.

_I will. How much are tickets?_

Seconds later:

_I’ve got you covered._

Hux feels like they’re in an absurdist drama themselves, just now, and wonders if somewhere Beckett’s ghost is scribbling notes.

_Thanks._

*

“You were great,” Hux tells him after the show that night. Ben scoffs. “You _were,”_ Hux presses. “The adaptation was shit,” he adds, “but you were great.” He gives a slight awkward smile; he’s had a migraine since the start of the second act, he’s never been a fan of Beckett and really he just wants to go home.

Ben smiles almost as stiffly and runs a hand through his gelled-messy dark hair. “Thanks for coming.”

They lapse into silence and don’t look at each other, like fucking _teenagers,_ Hux thinks in disbelief; and then at last they’re interrupted by the arrival of Ben’s co-star Nathan, who grabs Ben by the shoulders and says a bit manically, “ _Well done tonight!”_

“Thanks,” Ben says, warming up immediately, his big easy smile stealing across his face. He claps Nathan (an Irishman, nearly Ben’s height, curly-haired and ruddy-cheeked, Hux catalogues quickly, seeing him up close without his makeup) on the arm, beaming: “You too. Just one more to go and then we’re done!” They high-five.

“Maybe Godot will finally make an appearance tomorrow night,” Hux offers lamely, giving another forced smile. Somehow, watching Ben grin and joke with another guy is worse than the two of them staring at each other in silence, shuffling their feet and not knowing what to say: much, much worse. Hux’s annoyance only deepens when Nathan gives an overly polite little laugh and Ben joins in.

“Who’s this, then?” Nathan asks, turning his bright brown gaze on Hux, and Ben makes hasty introductions — “Oh, this is my — um, this is Brendol Hux,” he explains awkwardly. “I’m sure I’ve mentioned him.”

“Oh, _you’re_ him!” Nathan says brightly. “The lawyer, right?” He smiles cheerily and Hux detects, again, that trace of mania in his face and tone; his pupils darting wildly, blown too wide for the lighting. He wonders what he’s on, and thinks vaguely, as his head pounds out a steady rhythm of pain made worse by the buzz of chatter all around, that he’d like some of it too.

“Yeah,” Hux replies, smiling falsely. “The lawyer. Unfortunately, the lawyer who’s got an important meeting tomorrow morning and therefore should _really_ be going,” he invents, making sure to look _terribly_ apologetic. “C’mon, Ben, we’d best be off — I promised to buy him dinner after the show,” Hux explains sweetly to Nathan, lying through his teeth, “and it’s getting late.”

“Then I won’t keep you any longer! Have fun!” Nathan tells them, and drops a quick kiss on Ben’s cheek. “See you tomorrow, Didi.” He winks.

“Bye, Gogo,” Ben returns in kind, grinning widely, and then Hux grabs his arm and practically drags him out the cramped lobby, down the stairs and into the street.

“C’mon,” Hux says tightly, half-dragging him to a cab stand. By some miracle they get a taxi right away, and Hux gives the driver his address: “Quickly, please.”

“Aren’t we going out to eat?” Ben asks, surprised.

“No,” Hux snaps, more forcefully than he’d intended. He resists the urge to clutch his head in his hands and scream.

“Okay,” Ben says warily, holding up his hands. “It’s just you told Nathan —”

“Nathan’s cute,” Hux interrupts cynically. “You two seem to get on.”

“We do,” Ben replies slowly. “The show’d be even more of a nightmare if we hated each other. We’d be at each other’s throats all the time; I might be tempted to _actually_ hang myself at the end.” He gives a humourless laugh.

“Hm,” says Hux, and then he turns his head to look out the window.

“We’ve become quite good friends,” Ben continues, deliberately ignoring Hux’s obvious ending of the conversation. He’s peeved: he’d intended for tonight to patch things up between them.

He’s been feeling guilty about never inviting Hux to his shows; truth be told he’s been anxious, worried somehow that he won’t live up to the picture (albeit not too impressive) that he’s painted for Hux of his acting career. But then with things weird between them, and Hux so stressed these last weeks, Ben had just wanted for things to go back to normal (or their version of it); and he’d hoped that the show tonight could be a peace offering. And then dinner after, a couple drinks, going back to Hux’s flat and undressing him slowly, kissing him the way he likes and tugging his bottom lip between his teeth — that’s how he’d thought tonight would go.

But it’s not going that way, of course it’s not, and it’s all _Nathan’s_ fault, for Christ’s sake. Nathan is ridiculously affectionate and he’s high out of his mind and neither of these things boded well for Ben tonight; and he could feel Hux’s eyes on them, taking in Nathan’s wink and his hands lingering on Ben’s shoulders and the goodbye kiss on the cheek. And now Hux, in his subtle icy lawyer’s way, is accusing Ben of _something;_ he’s reading between lines that don’t exist and finding words and words and a whole nothing story, _and I might as well just spell it out for him._

“ _Really_ good friends, actually,” Ben goes on, twisting the knife, wanting to. “We’re together all the time, you know — rehearsals, and now shows every day and twice on the weekends, and we’ve actually been going to auditions together, too. We work really well together. Good chemistry.”

Hux gives no reply. Ben takes this as a cue to keep talking.

“And he just came out to his family last month, and they didn’t take it too well — they’re Irish Catholics; _that_ Sunday dinner went about as well as you’d expect!” Ben gives a loud laugh. “They used to help him with his rent, but they’ve been threatening to cut him off ever since; I told him he could come stay at mine if he needed. He’s taken me up on it a couple times,” he adds casually, warming fully to his role.

(The only true thing about this is the coming-out last month and the Irish Catholicism; but Nathan’s parents are lovely and they took their son’s news with grace and an outpouring of support. Hux, Ben figures, doesn’t need to know any of this.)

“He sleeps at your place?” Hux asks finally, his voice like ice.

“Sometimes, yeah,” Ben says offhand, smiling innocently. “Is that a problem? I figured it’d be okay, cause you and I, y’know, we’re not —”

Hux cuts him off: “It’s fine.”

They say nothing else for the rest of the drive to Hux’s place. When the cab stops, Hux springs up and pays the driver in about thirty seconds flat, and then stalks inside his building without so much as a goodbye to Ben. Ben watches him go as if in a trance, sees him stride through the well-lit marble-floored lobby and then turn the corner to the stairs.

The cabbie clears his throat loudly. “I said where to next, mate?” he asks irritably.

“Sorry.” Ben gives him his own address, a few streets away. He leans back against the leather seat and closes his eyes against the city lights outside, wondering too late if he’s gone too far.

*

The next night at the interval, when Nathan does a line and offers some to Ben, he doesn’t refuse.

“Yeah,” Ben says without planning to. “Yeah, I’ll take some.”

Nathan looks up in surprise: he offers these days more out of politeness than any expectation that Ben’ll want to partake. But “Okay,” he says cheerfully, and cuts a line for his co-star. “Here you go.”

It’s been ages since Ben’s done cocaine, not since drama school in L.A.; he’s been clean for years but he remembers what to do. He remembers, too, the slow creeping white rush when it hits your bloodstream; he takes a breath and straightens up, feeling like someone’s touched a match to the wick of his brain. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

“You want another?” Nathan offers.

“Yeah.” Ben’s response is instant, automatic. Greedily, gratefully, he does another line; _it’s fine, this is fine, it doesn’t count._

“Rough day?” Nathan asks sympathetically, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

“Mm.” Ben closes his eyes, seeing sparks, trying not to _think._

The lights blink, signalling three minutes to curtain up. “Best get going,” Nathan suggests.

Ben nods. They find their places, Ben onstage, Nathan in the right wings. Ben feels his blood buzzing _._ He can imagine the look of disappointment on Hux’s face if he saw him getting high backstage between acts, and a smile twists its way across his lips.

The lights go up. The play goes on.

_(“Do you want me to go away?” Vladimir asks of Estragon. “Did they beat you? Where did you spend the night?”_

_“Don’t touch me! Don’t question me! Don’t speak to me! Stay with me!”)_

Ben’s head hurts. He feels like he’s flying. He knows he’s going to hit the ground. _Hux._

_(“Did I ever leave you?”_

_“You let me go.”)_

*

Afterward, when they’re in the dressing rooms — bad crowd tonight and the cast could feel it; they got lazy, sloppy, _it’s our last night, what the hell_  — Ben strips and haphazardly puts his costume away (for the last time but he can’t even feel the triumph of it); fumbles about for his street clothes. He’s high, Jesus _Christ_ he’s high; he doesn’t know how he remembered his blocking, much less his lines, much less how to stay standing and breathing, but he did.

Nathan comes over and claps him on the back and says something that Ben doesn’t catch, it sounds like he’s talking underwater, and Ben shakes his head and says, “Sorry, what?” and Nathan says, “Last show! You wanna grab a drink to celebrate?”, beaming, and Ben thinks fleetingly of Hux and then he makes up his mind and offers, “You wanna come back to my place instead?”, and Nathan peers curiously at him —  _But what about_ forming on his lips, and Ben shakes his head minutely, _Don’t worry,_ and then a grin breaks slowly over Nathan’s face and he says, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

*

That night, around eleven, Hux has forced himself to shut down his computer for the night, after rereading and re-editing his closing statements and finally reassuring himself that they’re _fine,_ they’re _good,_ even. He’s on the couch, the lights are low, Françoise Hardy plays softly from the sound-system; he’s drinking a glass of Pinot Grigio and starting part eight of _Anna Karenina._ It feels — ordinary. This feels like any night, like a normal night, like a Friday night should; he’s not waiting or expecting to hear from Ben, and while it’s maybe not for a good reason, he finds he’s able to relax.

And then Caroline texts.

(Caroline is an associate at the firm: a six-foot-three platinum blonde with an honours degree from Cambridge and as much sheer _efficiency_ as a German automobile plant. Hux is a little in awe of her; she’s the closest thing he’s ever had to a best friend. She’s also taken it upon herself — grudgingly, without intending to — to act as a sort of relationship counsellor for Hux since he’s been seeing Ben, and for this he is deeply grateful, though he’d never tell her so — for God knows they’ve had their fair share of therapy-worthy issues.)

And Caroline’s text seems to herald another one.

_Are you and Ben still together?_

Hux stares at his phone on the sofa beside him, the screen shining innocently up at him. He frowns. He marks his page carefully and puts down his book; he takes a swig of his wine and he picks up his phone. He doesn’t think, he just types:

_I don’t know. Why?_

The next minutes are the longest of his life. Hux taps his fingers impatiently, takes off his reading glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose; he finishes his wine and pours another glass, draining the bottle. And then, finally, she texts back:

_Lizzie’s sister is stage managing his show so she and I went to see it tonight — we saw him leaving after with a guy in the cast_

Hux frowns deeper.

A moment later:

_His co-star? Nathan I think his name is?_

And then, rapid-fire:

_They both looked pretty buzzed_

_High maybe_

_Lizzie says “high definitely”_

_I thought he was clean?_

_Are you guys okay?_

Hux closes his eyes. He turns off his phone and pushes it away.

_I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know._

*

“You slept with him, didn’t you?”

When Hux hears a key in the lock the next morning, he knows it has to be Ben, although he hasn’t shown up here in weeks. Hux doesn’t even look up from his breakfast; he speaks the question neutrally, already knowing the answer. Ben stands in the doorway looking tired, wearing clothes that have clearly been slept in. He crosses the kitchen without responding and goes to pour himself a cup of coffee from the brewed pot on the counter. Hux takes a bite of his omelette.

“Nathan,” he says. “Your _friend_ Nathan.”

“Yes.” Ben sounds — raw. He drinks his coffee without tasting it.

“Last night,” Hux states matter-of-factly.

“Yes.”

“Any other times?” Hux asks innocently. Ben glares at him.

“All right.” Hux holds up his hands in mocking surrender and then goes back to eating, ignoring Ben completely.

Ben abandons his coffee mug and goes into the bedroom. Hux hears him rummaging around, going into the bathroom: the tap runs, Ben brushes his teeth. He comes back out holding his toothbrush and the spare boxers they both pretend he doesn’t keep in Hux’s dresser.

“Leaving so soon?” Hux asks. “Going back to Nathan’s place for breakfast?”

“Does it matter to you?” Ben challenges. His dark hair is unwashed, falling in his eyes.

“No,” Hux says coolly.

“Good.”

He leaves as quickly as he’d come. Hux stares down at the remains of his breakfast and feels suddenly ill. He scrapes it into the bin and goes into the bedroom, lies down fully clothed. He might be imagining things but the pillow seems to smell of Ben’s hair. Hux closes his eyes.

*

**New message**

**To:** Hux,

_~~I didn’t sleep with him.~~ _

_~~I knew you were jealous and I wanted to make you feel like shit and I~~ _

_~~I can’t sleep when I’m alone.~~ _

_~~I’m sorry.~~ _

*

**New message**

**To:** Ben,

_~~I don’t care if you slept with him I just want you here with me~~ _

_~~It’s too fucking cold without you~~ _

_~~Come over.~~ _

_~~I’m sorry.~~ _

*

Hux has never been good with the words _I love you._

For one thing, no one’s really said them to him since his mother died, when he was ten; and when your father stops looking you in the eyes because they’re the same colour as hers and starts spending all night at the office instead of tucking you into bed like she used to do, you learn not to expect them anymore.

For another, he’s never been good with commitment. Abstractly, he thinks, he would like to settle down one day: have someone to come home to, someone to _sleep with_ in the barest form of the words — but most of his relationships have never progressed beyond a few one-night stands, and he always manages to convince himself that that’s really for the best. He doesn’t get lonely very often — he learned, very quickly, how to be completely self-sufficient, not to depend on anyone because at any moment they could leave you; but then it’ll be the middle of the night and his brain won’t shut off and he’ll just want _someone,_ to fuck, to talk to, to _have;_ and he never has, never does. He still knows how to need people; he's never known how to let them know he needs them.

There was one serious boyfriend in law school — the son of a baron, of all things, who’d gone to a better public school than Hux and who was _very_ handy with his tongue (perhaps a result of the better public-school education.) They went out all through third year; got a flat together off campus and talked of adopting a cat. One day the boyfriend told Hux he loved him — over breakfast, cereal and tea, Hux’s spoon halfway to his mouth. The spoon dropped back into the bowl with a clatter.

“I have a class,” Hux had lied, pushing his chair back and near-sprinting for his things, even though they didn't have their first lecture — together — for another two hours. “I have to go.”

“Wait,” the boyfriend had called, as the door slammed behind him — “Jesus, Hux, _wait!”_

Hux had skipped all his classes that day, just wandered around the neighbourhood and gotten miserably sloshed. He’d crashed on a classmate’s couch and then snuck back the next day to their flat while the boyfriend was in class: packed up all his things in a hurry and left the next three months’ rent on the kitchen table with no note.

(The boyfriend got an internship in China the next year and ended up completing his degree over there. He’s a high-profile lawyer for a big tech company now; Hux sees his name in law magazines sometimes, and tries not to think about any of it.)

He wondered then, and he wonders now, if he even remembers how to say it back.

*

_You left some stuff at my place._

Ben is awoken by his phone buzzing right in his ear. He groans and slaps out a hand, feeling rather than looking for it; he finds it on the pillow beside him, where apparently he dropped it when he came in drunk last night.

(Auditions still aren’t going well — he had a casting call for a West End show last week and he’d prepared like _mad;_ it was a big cast and a great script and he’d thought he really had a chance, but he got the rejection email —  _fucking gracious of them —_ yesterday evening while in the waiting room before another audition. He’d left _that_ one straight away, stalking out with a look in his eyes that made people in the street draw back in alarm, and he’d heard Hux’s voice in his head —  _Your big break is never going to come —_ and he knew finally that he was right, because this was supposed to be it and it wasn’t, and he was fucking stupid to ever have thought otherwise.

He’d gone out and drunk himself sick and at the end of the night nearly gotten on the Tube to Hux’s place before he stopped himself.)

And now Hux has texted. They haven’t spoken in three weeks, since the Nathan debacle, and Ben is pretty sure it’s over for good this time and he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t care but it’s really not working. But now he frowns down at his phone and squints at the words, and yeah he’s hungover but he knows for _sure_ that all he had at Hux’s flat was a toothbrush and some boxers that he took home with him that morning, so he doesn’t really know what Hux is talking about, and anyway it’s been three weeks and Hux is a neat freak so if there _is_ still stuff at his place how is he just noticing _now?_

Ben calls him, because looking at his iPhone screen is making his eyes hurt and he’s not sure he’d be able to type anything anyway and fuck it, he wants to ~~needs to~~ hear Hux’s voice.

“Hello?” Hux sounds perfectly businesslike, even at this early hour — Ben shoots a glance at his alarm clock and realises that it’s past eleven-thirty so, well, okay — and his voice betrays no awkwardness, no apology, no trace of _I miss you,_ no nothing —

“Hux,” Ben murmurs, scrubbing a fist over his eyes. “Hi.”

“You got my text,” Hux states.

“Yeah,” Ben says. “I did.”

“Mm. Well, you left some stuff, like I said,” Hux explains, and Ben is probably imagining things but does his voice waver just slightly now, does he sound not quite like himself?

“Ben? Are you listening?”

“Yeah,” Ben snaps back to attention. “Yeah, I got it, I left some stuff,” he mumbles. _God,_ his head hurts. “Uh, so, should I — come pick that up? Today?”

“If that works for you,” Hux replies smoothly, and now he sounds like _Brendol Hux II The Promising Young Lawyer_ again, sounds perfectly in control. “I’m at work now, obviously, but you could drop by round half six.”

“Back to normal hours, huh?” Ben jokes half-heartedly.

A sigh on the end of the line: “Yes.” Ben can practically see the firm open-and-shut of Hux’s lips on the word, leaving no room for further questions: _so the case went badly, then…_

“All right,” Ben says. He runs his fingers through his dirty hair, thinks absently of the last time he sucked Hux off in the shower. “Half six.”

“Half six,” Hux confirms. “See you then.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

*

So Ben pops some ibuprofen and drinks several glasses of water and forces himself to eat one piece of lightly buttered toast, and he showers and dresses and spends a couple hours working on some monologues, and he takes a brief nap and replies to his mom’s latest email (from two weeks ago) and then turns on the TV ( _X-Files_ reruns) and then he changes his outfit because the white shirt has a spot of coffee on the hem, and he eats an apple and reads half a new script, and he combs out his hair and checks the time on his phone again and again and again and then _finally_ he leaves his apartment and steps into the warm evening and walks the few streets to Hux’s.

The door is un-bolted and ajar, when he gets there. He pushes it open — “Hello?” — and Hux turns around, startled, from where he’s unpacking his briefcase on the kitchen table.

“Oh!” Hux says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even notice the time — I just got home — God. Would you like a drink?” He’s flustered, he’s disarmed, he’s still wearing his reading glasses from work; he never lets anyone see him this way; and now he’s bustling around, brushing his hair distractedly out of his eyes and looking for glasses and liquor that Ben doesn’t want, and Ben says, “Hey. Relax. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just grab my stuff and get out of here — you’ve got work to do, I’m sure” — a feeble gesture to the briefcase, his hand falling limply to his side — and the bemused look in Hux’s eyes, the spark of guilty realisation — his hand holding the two wine glasses pauses — “Oh, right — your stuff” — he sets them down.

Hux moves away from the counter and comes back to the table, nearer to Ben, who is still hovering by the front door. Hux sighs, and he says, “Listen, Ben, you didn’t leave anything —” and Ben says gently, “I know.”

They stare at each other for a moment, unspoken words colouring the air between them; and then they come together in a blur and Hux is backing Ben up against the wall, Ben’s arms are tight around his waist and _God,_ Hux’s lips are on Ben’s neck, his tongue in the hollow of his clavicle, and Ben closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Hux says against Ben’s lips, and “I know,” Ben murmurs into his mouth.

Then Hux pulls back just barely, just slightly, their foreheads still touching, and he asks, looking into Ben’s eyes for an answer, “Did you sleep with him?”

Ben shakes his head. “Never.”

Relief spreads over Hux’s face, an embarrassed vulnerable smile; and Ben kisses him again, deeper now, and Hux sighs like he’s come home. He twines one hand through Ben’s hair and braces the other against the wall, pressing them closer, closer. Ben holds him tight, his big hands familiar and steady, keeping him afloat. It’s easy, after that: Ben’s fingers gentle on the buttons of Hux’s dress shirt, unknotting his tie and sliding the silk-lined blazer off his shoulders; Hux helping him peel his own t-shirt off and running his hands over the smooth familiar planes of his chest.

“Bedroom?” Ben murmurs, and Hux nods, leads him by the hand like it’s their first time. They fall into bed like they always do, but it’s not rough, it’s not angry, tonight — it’s slow, it’s gentle, it’s sorry —  _and is it enough?_ they both try not to wonder.

*

Ben wraps Hux in his arms, after, and sighs against his shoulder; and Hux closes his eyes and listens to Ben’s breathing and is just drifting off when Ben murmurs, “Hux?”

Hux opens his eyes. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry.”

“We’ve been over this.” Hux sighs. “I know; I’m sorry too. It was stupid, all of it.” He shifts in Ben’s arms, shuts his eyes again: “We’ll talk in the morning if you want, all right? I’m tired.”

“I mean it, though,” Ben says, ignoring. “I’m sorry.” He swallows: his arms tighten, just barely, around Hux’s waist. “And — Hux?”

Hux waits. Ben takes a breath.

“I love you.”

And Hux pauses.

*

**Author's Note:**

> [Illustrated](http://abernathae.tumblr.com/post/141204437979/flurgburgler-abernathae-commissioned-an) by the marvellously talented [flurgburgler](http://flurgburgler.tumblr.com) _and_ the brilliant [bygoneboy](http://bygoneboy.tumblr.com)! Twice!! [(x)](http://bygoneboy.tumblr.com/post/143780342622/youre-the-only-thing-i-want-i-said-i-wouldnt) [(x)](http://bygoneboy.tumblr.com/post/144739180092/youre-in-a-car-with-a-beautiful-boy-and-youre)
> 
> With the exceptions of Hux's college boyfriend and Nathan, these characters aren't mine, and neither of course is Waiting for Godot. Very slightly inspired by [this fanvid](http://marblenarwhal.tumblr.com/post/138516792407/kylux-modern-au-romantic-comedy-trailer-watch) — I took lawyer!Hux and actor!Ben and got rid of, like, all the happiness. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Anyhow — so many thanks to [birdling ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdling) for letting me write parts of this fic on your bedroom floor and then beta-ing it so insightfully and helpfully, despite not even shipping this — je t'adore, you're too good to me. Even _more_ thanks to [Annushka](http://flurgburgler.tumblr.com) for her beautiful, beautiful art, which is everything I'd ever imagined and more: you'll notice that Hux has _freckles on his hand,_ which is the reason I wake up in the mornings.
> 
> Thank you _also_ to [Mak](http://bygoneboy.tumblr.com), who nearly made me spontaneously combust in public when he announced that he'd been inspired to draw (and I quote) "a shitload" from this fic, and then proceeded to do so (making me combust even _further)!_ Thank you, thank you, thank you.
> 
> Last but not least: feel free to come say hi on my [main blog](http://abernathae.tumblr.com) or my [Star Wars blog](http://huxes.tumblr.com)! :)


End file.
